


gathering salt in the moonlight

by pomegarnet



Category: Ghost Quartet - Malloy, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Affairs, Death, Dialogue Heavy, Ghost Quartet AU, I fucking wrote the first chapter at 2 am last night Why Am I Like This, Infidelity, M/M, My Leg(acy), Rating will change, Reincarnation (I Guess), Relationships will be added, how the fuck do you tag a ghost quartet au this is complicated as shit, is this the first ghost quartet fic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegarnet/pseuds/pomegarnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there isn't a ghost in the mirror.</p><p>there is a candle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gathering salt in the moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> #listen 2 and appreciate ghost quartet

He does not know where his camera is.

 

He knows it is likely distorted, shards and pieces decorating the floor somewhere.

 

He is revolted by the idea, and he does not know where his camera is.

 

He notices a small store, a sign hanging from a sturdy piece of wood that reads, “ _ Camera Shop, Since the 19th century, A family business.” _

 

He finds himself stepping toward the tiny store. The windows are more like mirrors, and he is disgusted by his reflection, his isolation and solitary from the world.

 

He needs another camera.

 

* * *

  
  


He steps inside of the little and quaint camera shack, bells jingling in harmony above his head, clinging to the door. He notices a lightly colored fiddle hanging on the wall. An array of camera lenses adorn shelves, price tags crowding near them. The room is barren of people, besides himself and the man running the store. The man is tapping onto his phone screen, swishing his fingers up and down, playing an app of some sorts. He’s surrounded by whiskey, some leaking out of their bottles, dripping down the sides of the bottles, vermilion in the lighting of the camera shop. 

 

He walks toward the man at the cashier, wincing a tad at the creaking of the paling wooden floor. He arrives at the cashier’s desk, and the man still doesn’t look up from his phone.   
  


He’s unreasonably bitter about it.   
  


“Excuse me?”

The man at the cashier perks his head up, and he is a tad unbearably handsome. He doesn't turn his phone off, just turns the screen down to the table, light shimmering off from the side.

 

“Do you need anything, dude?” The cashier asks.

 

He’s unusually intrigued by the cashier’s nonchalance. “Yeah,” he starts, his breath slightly uneven, “I lost my camera?” and the last statement comes out as more of a question.

 

“Do you think somebody stole it? I can go hunt ‘em for you, man.”

 

“Oh, oh, no, it’s alright, It wasn’t stolen.”

 

“Then what happened to it? Did you run outta memory?” 

 

“No the camera it,” and he struggled to find the proper word, and repeats himself, “it, got smashed and crushed into pieces.”

 

The man at the counter gives a hearty laugh, waves his hand to symbol  _ ‘come closer!’  _  and to ask for the camera, “Give it here,” he says, smirking, “I can repair it for you.”

 

“It, it,” and he is repeating himself again, “it, the pieces got lost, swept away.”

 

“Well shit.” says the man at the counter. He pulls a glass cup from his desk, pours a deal of whiskey into said cup, and shoves it towards the store visitor, “Have some of my whiskey, you need it more than I do.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The man behind the counter pours himself a shot of whiskey from an almost empty bottle anyways, before downing it’s entirety. “So,” the cashier starts, “What kinda camera was it? Was it a phone camera?”

 

“No, no, phone cameras aren't the greatest for photography, I’m not a fan of phones anyways.”

 

“Same here,” the cashier says, eyeing his phone and it’s draining battery. “Let’s get you a new camera! Do you want a new type, or the same as your previous camera, or some random bullshit brand--”

 

The visitor interrupts the cashier, “I do not really have a preference, I can make it work.”

 

The cashier swallows the newly found information. “You know what.” he says rhetorically, “I’ll get you the best camera in the store. It’s expensive though! But just sit tight and pour yourself some more whiskey.”

 

The cashier runs off into the store, and the visitor begins to down his glass.

 

“So,” begins the cashier, “I’ve never seen you ‘round here? You traveling?”

 

The visitor downs his drink, wipes at his mouth with the sleeves of his coat and replies, “Yes, I am.”

 

“From where?”

 

“Portland.”

 

“Isn’t that in Washington? I’ve been there before, the library was super cool!”

 

The visitor sighs, “That’s Seattle.”

 

“Oh shit! Sorry dude, I get them mixed up. Barely know where anything is in this world.”

 

The visitor let's out a chuckle, then takes a huge swig of his drink, tapping his fingers on the rim of the bottle. He can relate.

 

The cashier walks back to the the register at the counter, holding a box that carries the camera. He checks on his phone, and finally decides to shut it off. The man at the counter pushes the box towards the visitor, “This is the best camera we got in stock.” he says. The visitor opens the box, and scans over the camera.

 

“Did you grow up there?” ask the cashier.

 

“Where?” the visitor asks back.

 

The cashier laughs at that, “Portland, of course!” he states joyfully.

 

“Oh, why yes I did. It’s where I spent my childhood.”

 

The cashier grunts, but hides it behind a smirk and a drink. He says “Sure sounds nice.”

 

The visitor replies, “It was wonderful. What about you? Have you been around here for a long time?”

 

“Yeah, I have!” The cashier states proudly, smiling, “This old store is practically a family heirloom! It’s been in my family for four generations. You should’ve heard the stories I grew up with! Every thing in this shop is practically a family fable, like that green book all lonesome on that shelf, or this counter, or the--”

 

The store’s visitor interrupts him, “--What about  _ that _ ?” He says, pointing to the object.

 

“That fiddle on the wall?” asks the cashier, and the visitor nods in confirmation. “That old thing belonged to my great-grandpa! He was known as Pierre.”

 

The visitor gasps in shock and surprise. 

 

“What’s wrong? You know the guy?” 

 

“That’s my name!”

 

“It’s a cool name,” says the cashier, “It’s not that common these days, but still cool.” "May I touch the fiddle?” Pierre asks.

 

“Go right ahead.”

 

Pierre presses a palm to the fiddle, and finds an unusual texture to the object. The color was still strikingly light and pale. “I have another question.” He states.

 

“What is it?” 

 

“The texture and the color… What is this made out of?”

 

“I remember it being a man’s breastbone.”

 

“Oh,” Pierre says, “That’s quite creepy.”

 

The cashier sneers. “Wanna know what's even worse?” He asks

 

“What?”

 

“That was the breastbone of a friend!”

 

“What.”

 

The cashier nods fervently, “Yes, it was! That breast bone belonged to one of my great grandfather's confidantes. His name was Fedya. There’s a whole story behind it as well. You wanna hear it?” 

 

Pierre shows his approval by nodding. 

 

The cashier goes to pour Pierre and himself a drink.

 

“Now,” the cashier starts, “Pierre and Fedya, they lived close to each other, they admitted the same stars. They had mild arguments, but the biggest tore the apart. The biggest was over a man!” He tells Pierre.

 

“A  _ man? _ ” Pierre asks.

 

“Yes,” the cashier states, “In the  _ amorous  _ and  _ loving _ way. Pierre had made the mistake of falling in love with a man, a prince, of some sorts. He’d falling in love with a seducer, of some kind.”

 

“How did that happen?”

 

“Pierre had visited the prince’s home, and he looked all around in the house, brilliant rooms, rich with color.”

 

“It sounds stunning.”

 

The cashier nods, “It was! Pierre’s favorite place in that place was the room with the giant window. There was a telescope, and you could see all the little specks of salt gathering in the light ray of the moon. That was also where Pierre had fallen in love with the prince.”

 

Pierre finds himself in a flurry of confusion and amusement. He sips from his whiskey glass and asks, “What did Pierre do after that?”

 

The cashier’s phone buzzes, a notification of some sorts. The cashier downs another glass. “Pierre wrote and wrote love letters until he had written one that could satisfy his love.” The cashier takes out a blank yet torn piece of lined paper, “Pierre signed his name in a rush, his signature stamping the bottom of the page,” and the man behind the counter demonstrates this by drawing his index finger over the signature spot, “And he sealed it inside of an envelope made of rice paper, and he used a lily for a stamp.” The cashier finishes.

 

“And how did the prince respond to Pierre’s love?”

 

“Well,” starts the cashier, before he takes a swig of his drink, “The prince didn’t say anything, just took Pierre up to the telescope room and asked him to observe the stars through the telescope. Pierre spoke out loud and the prince recorded all of his words.”

 

The cashier’s phone had begun to ring.

 

“Are you going to answer that?”

 

“No. I can call him back after finishing the story.”

 

“Oh. What happens next?’

 

“The prince stole Pierre’s findings and claimed it as his own! Sold it to some editor of this important diary about space. Pierre had slowly begun to distance himself from his former lover, but his former lover had his eye caught by another.”

 

“By who?”

 

“Fedya.” states the cashier.

 

“Oh.” Pierre said, “ This story is quite perplexing.”

 

The cashier responds to that comment by swinging his glass at Pierre. “Don’t worry, it’ll make sense at the end. Now, where were we?”

 

“The prince and Fedya.”

 

“Oh, yeah right. After finding about the affair, Pierre had gotten drunk on wine and whiskey, and he had spent hours and hours behind the pen, writing and writing his love away, as if that was the only solution.” The cashier pulls the charger from the outlet and plugs it in, “Everything went to Hell when Pierre had went to the forest, and screamed their names like a death wish. It echoed throughout the forest, to which a bear had gotten awoken by it.”

 

“What did the bear do? Maul everything until there was nothing left?”

 

“No, no, but that’s what Pierre asked the bear to do.”

 

“What?”

 

“Pierre had asked the bear to maul the prince into bloody shreds in front of his lover, and to find a way to transform the lover into a vicious and hungry crow, and lock them up in a cave until the only way for the crow to survive was to peck his lover apart piece by piece and slowly eat him.”

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“I know, man! It was fucking wild! I was told this as a  _ child!” _

 

“I can’t believe this.”

 

“Well, you should,” states the cashier, “The bear had no desire to murder and break apart the two lovers. But, she had realized a possibility for her to strike a deal in this plan.”

 

“What was the bears--” Pierre was interrupted by the chiming of a clock.

 

“I have to close the store in a few minutes. You have to go, like, now.”

 

“Yes, yes that’s alright, but, what was the bear’s deal?”

 

“The bear asked for a single pot of honey, a small piece of stardust, a privately baptised baby and a photograph of a ghost. Can you leave now?”

 

“Where did he find those items?”

 

“An assassin, some ancient person and a teenage boy. Now can you go, please?”  

 

“Alright, I'll leave! Goodbye!” Pierre shouted at the cashier before hurrying out of the door.

  
He had forgotten his new camera inside the shop.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @garnetcomets


End file.
